


The traitor

by Anonymous



Series: Heavy like your life on my hands [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:20:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23962999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He kills Fives. He's a good soldier. Or the aftermath.
Series: Heavy like your life on my hands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728598
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47
Collections: Anonymous





	The traitor

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing fanfiction it's almost 6AM so I hope it makes sense. English isn't my first language so please tell me if there's any typo/error or if I should add another tag. Enjoy!

His helmet feels heavy in his hands.

The Chancellor had asked _him_ to shoot the traitor on sight, to shoot _his vod_ on sight, and he had complied hadn't he?

_Hadn't he?_

His helmet stops feeling heavy when he throws it at the wall, but it falls, its visor staring back at him, the red, an accusatory _bloody red_ feels like the blood that Fives didn't drop but it's still on his hands, the thing he had called face once, joking with Thorn “ _This is the only thing the senators see, our helmet might as well be our only face.”_ But both his faces were incriminatory now, the cold, hard and bloody one and the flesh one. Would he be able to look in the mirror again?

Would he be able to look in the mirror, to look at his own brothers in the eyes, without seeing Fives, without seeing him gasping for breath clutched in Rex's arms?

Without seeing the burned mark on his chest?

But he knows the mirror won't be the same, there won't be a goatee or a tattoo on his temple, just his graying hair. Will it become even more grey now? Will there be any left if he stopped pulling at it? 

His knees hit the floor, and his forehead rests against the wall, hands _gripping_ his hair, his armor feels dirty, and tight, like a trap with no escape in sight. He only sees its color _red_. _Blood_.

How can something that is supposed to protect him become a threat? How does a brother become your murderer?

The gun was supposed to be on stun.

There's a scream in his throat but it won't come out.

The gun was set on kill, and it had done its job, like the tool it was, just fulfilling its purpose. 

He was going to defy orders, bring him into custody and keep him _alive_ , anything for his _vode_ , but he had followed orders.

 _"Good soldiers follow orders,"_ something in the back of his mind supplies and had supplied back then.

 _"A good soldier wouldn't kill his brother,"_ other part of his mind adds, and he has the vague feeling of being a bystander of a fight, but it goes away, dragged by the guilt.

His throat still feels closed, like there's a knot and the scream tries to escape but only comes out like a sob.

For a moment he wonders if the gun was the only _tool_ in the equation, if it was the only present, because _he_ had fulfilled his purpose.

He and Rex had stood, silent, even after they parted ways but he knew both wanted the same, _to scream and scream and scream._

But there was something holding him back like a leash to a curious dog, that choked him at the most minimum taste of _freedom_ , of _liberation._

He had followed orders. He was… _a good soldier._

_He was a good soldier._

_He. Was. A good. Soldier._

The tears that fall down his cheeks aren't acknowledged, but their path burns harder that any flame.

CT-5555 may had been the traitor.

But why did he feel like the only traitor was himself?


End file.
